My Dear Old Friend
by darcytess
Summary: Christine and Raoul often speak of their childhood and close bond; but what were the real events? An account of Christine from the age of six, from meeting Raoul, her father's death and going to live with the Girys, and mysterious dreams from an Angel of Music...
1. The Christmas Party

The snow was tumbling gracefully from the skies as little Christine skipped alongside her best friend, and father, holding his hand. He had a grand violin case in the other hand, lined inside with the most gorgeous velvet in the whole of France. Their cheeks were rosy with the biting cold in the air, but they were in high spirits. They were taking the road from Remigny, where they lived together in a beautiful townhouse.

"Come on, Little Lotte," his kind eyes smiled down at her as she grinned up at him. She had a little dark purple bonnet on her head and tied in a pretty bow underneath her chin. She was wearing woollen gloves and a large grey overcoat, but underneath she wore a beautiful purple velvet dress just down below her knees and a little pair of navy leather lace-up shoes.

"What's the time, papa?" Christine asked, her pretty blue eyes sparkling with the reflection of the white sky.

"It's nearly five o'clock, Christine. We need to be at the Vicomte's manor by the hour, so we'd better skip a little quicker." He suddenly twirled her around, and off they went, hand in hand, singing a beautiful little aria from an Opera in which Monsieur Daae had played his violin in the grand orchestra pit. Christine had never understood the lyrics, but she always liked to sing it and think of lovely things, as the song was about thinking of 'me'. Whoever 'me' was, she had no idea.

Upon arrival at the Vicomte's large house, little Christine was in awe. The place was enormous. The grand wrought iron gates stood proudly at the entrance, and the large gravel driveway leading up to the house was dusted with snow. It was the Vicomte's Christmas party, and esteemed guests from all over France were to be arriving that very evening. Monsieur Daae had been asked to play the violin for the guests for the duration of the evening. He often played in the Opera Houses in Paris, and for that time Christine would stay with her wonderful, kind grandmother at her sweet little cottage on the outskirts of Remigny.

Monsieur Daae pulled a face at Christine as lifted the scary brass griffin-shaped knocker on the large oak door. Her giggle in response sounded like a pealing bell. Immediately a butler opened the door and greeted them kindly. They were swept inside and taken in to a large room with an extraordinarily high ceiling. The windows were draped with fine silken curtains with tasselled hems. The wooden floor was so polished; Christine could look down and see herself looking up at her. She gazed around the room. There were tens of pictures hung on the walls, all of aged men dressed in their finest. In a corner, a large, ornate grand piano sat unused. In the same corner was a slight raised platform, clearly intended to be the stage.

A large, friendly, booming voice came down the hall. Little Christine clutched her father's leg.

"It's alright, Little Lotte. This is Monsieur le Vicomte." Monsieur le Vicomte was a tall and man of about his late forties. He had friendly eyes and rosy cheeks, as if he was never short of a glass of sherry. The two men shook hands, and he bent down to kiss Christine on both cheeks.

"Welcome, Gustave, welcome. I am so proud and honoured to have you, so proud." Christine stifled a giggle. The man had a peculiar and eccentric way of speaking, "You must be Christine. An honour, an absolute honour, Mademoiselle. Welcome to my grand palace of the dance! Raoul! Come and meet our first guests!"

"Coming, papa!" came a little voice. Suddenly, a little boy only two, maybe three years older than Christine came careering round the archway, "I was just showing Nanny my new draughts set." He gave the guests a toothy grin, "Hello, I'm Raoul." Raoul was dressed in a little mourning suit for the occasion.

"This is Christine." Monsieur Daae pushed his daughter slightly towards Raoul. Raoul continued to grin at her. He saw that she was a very pretty little girl indeed, and took kindly towards her.

"Hello, Christine. Would you like to come and play in my nursery?" He offered, holding out his hand. She wanted to very much, but she looked at her father for his approval just in case.

"Go and have some fun, Little Lotte. I need to speak with Monsieur le Vicomte and tune up my violin. You have fun, child." He smiled his kindest smile at her as she walked off, hand in hand with the little Vicomte.

"Why does your papa call you 'Little Lotte'? Isn't your name Christine?" Raoul inquired as they went out.

"Yes, my name is Christine. He calls me that because I'm bumptious, like a girl called Little Lotte who was a character in his Swedish storybooks when he was my age. He's from Sweden, you know." Christine informed him matter-of-factly.

"What's Sweden?" Raoul asked.

"I don't know," giggled Christine.

Their fathers beamed at each other and laughed at the children's innocent chatter. Monsieur Daae and Monsieur le Vicomte greeted each other as the great friends they were as soon as they were just in each other's company. They had been friends ever since they were boys, Monsieur Daae having been the Cook's son at his father's house when they lived in Paris.

The current Vicomte had taken violin lessons and had a gorgeous violin; however he had neither talent nor admiration for the instrument. One day, the previous Vicomte had heard the sound of the most gorgeous violin sound coming from the music room in their large townhouse. It wasn't the screeching that he heard from his un-musically gifted son, but the most gorgeous gliding melody. He had gone to investigate and found the young cook's son completely wrapped up in the instrument. He stopped playing with a start when he heard the Vicomte and began to apologise profusely for his sneaking in to the house and playing the violin, but the Vicomte just smiled and offered that he take the young Vicomte's lessons. The young Vicomte was pleased as he detested his painful violin lessons, and from then him and his saviour, despite their class difference, became very close friends.

Monsieur le Vicomte's brow furrowed in concern,

"And your health, Gustave? Any better?" He frowned at his friend with pity.

"I hate to tell you no, my friend. I am becoming weaker by the day, I can feel it. And I can't tell Christine her father is deeply unwell. She looks so concerned every time I cough and yet, I don't think she even suspects." He grimaced from not only the pain in his chest but his emotional pain for letting his daughter down. He had been suffering these terrible pains in his chest for a number of months now, and his doctor had declared that there was nothing he could do. Monsieur le Vicomte patted his friend's shoulder with sympathy and worry.

The revelry had begun, judging from the jolly music echoing up the grand stairway in to the young Vicomte's nursery.

"Your Papa is a wonderful violinist," Raoul smiled as he enjoyed the music.

"He is, isn't he?" Christine beamed with pride as she always did on the frequent occasions when her father's talents were complimented.

"Would you like to go downstairs? I'll show you some of the pompous old men that Papa has to acquaint." Raoul grinned mischievously. Christine giggled and nodded. They came out of the little nursery and began walking down the beautifully carpeted hallway. When they got to the stairs little Raoul showed off by gliding down the glorious brass banister. Christine laughed again at her new friend and did the same.

"That fat, bald man is Monsieur Dicardier, he's a right old square. All he cares about is shooting and his stupid moustache!" Raoul exclaimed as they peeped from behind a grand, silken, sweeping curtain.

"And that?" Christine inquired.

"That is Monsieur Couvé. He's got the most enormous laugh, but not a pleasant one. It sounds like he is constantly wheezing."

"How vile!" The little girl exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. She gazed in awe at the fine ladies and gentlemen swishing around on the dance floor in a waltz being played by her father. She felt a little disappointed as this was not the music she loved that he would play to her, but another, more popular sort. Her father would play her tunes most melancholy but beautiful that even at such a young age it let her song take wing.

Suddenly a face peered round at the two children from behind the curtain.

"And who might you be?" The gentleman asked. He was of middle-age but had greying hair and a large waxed moustache. He wore green velvet, "and what are you doing behind the curtain?" He clearly did not mean to be impudent but there was a part of him that Christine already didn't like. He seemed like he would be a coward, or at least shy away from his problems.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur. My name is Raoul de Chagny. I am the Vicomte's son, and this is Christine Daae. Her father is the violinist." Raoul stood up proudly as he presented himself and Christine as he had seemed to do many a time before.

"Ah, splendid music," he cried, "Just marvellous. But Little Vicomte, surely you would rather mingle with the lords and ladies than the children of the staff." The man hinted, smiling belittlingly at Raoul. His slightly browned teeth gleamed in the light of the chandeliers and it made Christine's skin crawl.

"Surely, _you _would rather mingle with the lords and ladies than spending the evening telling mere children what they are to do." Christine responded, smiling sweetly at the man. For a moment he paused at her impertinence, and Christine's heart skipped a beat as she remembered her father had told her to be respectful at all times in the de Chagny house. Then she saw the man's eyes wrinkle in to crows' feet as he let out a booming laugh.

"You, my dear, are a clever little girl, aren't you?" He plodded off, laughing to himself. Christine breathed a sigh of relief and looked at her new friend, who was smiling at her in awe.

"I can't believe you stood up to Monsieur Lefèvre!" Raoul exclaimed.

"Why? Who is he?" the proud little girl that Christine was pretended that it was nothing, although her heart was still thumping madly.

"He is an acquaintance of my father's; he lives in Paris and he is the owner of a grand opera house." Raoul whispered, "Many are afraid of him, even my father is slightly!"

"Well, I'm not afraid of him," Christine pursed her lips and looked domineeringly over Raoul, who looked up at her pretty face in awe. He was wonderstruck by Christine. Not only was she a beautiful little girl with the most perfect doll face and brown ringlets but she had a fire inside her that drew him to her instantly.

"Are you afraid of anything?" exclaimed Raoul, his eyes wide and grinning devilishly.

"No!" retorted Christine, "I'm not afraid of _anything."_

"Well, then I've got to show you something."

The attic was very dark, the only light being that of Raoul's candle. There was a chill in the air and Christine tried not to jump at the scrambling of the claws of the rats in the attic, although an unsure shiver travelled slowly down her spine.

"I come up here sometimes when Papa is busy and Nanny has fallen asleep. She's so old; she falls asleep a lot!" Raoul giggled, and Christine's pealing bell giggle joined him.

"Here," Raoul put the candle down and immediately a dull light enveloped the part of the attic they were in. There was a red carpet laid out, a large book, a couple of toys and a little wicker basket containing some crackers that Raoul had managed to sneak in to the attic, "this is my secret hideout. I've never shown _anyone. _So you are my honoured guest."

Christine giggled and curtseyed, "Honoured indeed," she agreed with him.

They both sat down and began laughing again. Raoul loved to hear her laugh, it only made him laugh more.

"Do you only have a Papa?" He asked her. He watched her face fall and immediately regretted his outright question.

"Yes. Well, no. Mama is in Heaven," She smiled kindly at Raoul, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable, "What about you? I haven't seen your Mama."

"My Mama died when I was two years old. Papa never really told me what happened except...she went out in her carriage to visit a friend and never came back. I think perhaps the carriage lost control and-"

Christine noticed him upsetting himself,

"We don't need to talk about it. I understand." Christine smiled comfortingly at him. He smiled back, "And even if we don't have Mamas at least we have each other."

"We're going to be friends for a very, very long time, aren't we?" Raoul took her hand and grinned a toothy grin at her.

"Of course we are," Christine returned the toothy grin, "What's in your book?"

The book was leather bound and very smart. It had purple writing on the front of it. It was incredibly grand, and Christine only wished she could own such a beautiful book.

"It contains all the dark stories of the North. And even a story about 'Little Lotte'," Raoul looked at her inquisitively, "I didn't make the connection."

"Perhaps we should read the story." Christine smiled, "I hope it isn't scary!"

Raoul blew the dust off the cover of the book and opened it to the correct page.

"'Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was dark as chocolate and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her mother, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.'" His little voice read the story fluently. Christine was in awe of him; she could only dream of being able to read so well.

Christine looked at Raoul and studied his features for the first time. He had blonde hair, combed to the side to make him look very sophisticated. His green-blue eyes reminded her of the sea-side visit she had taken two years ago with Papa. His little nose was a perfect curve and his youthful cheeks had a roundness to them that would disappear in time.

Meanwhile Raoul thought of the little girl in his company. She reminded of Little Lotte; he could imagine her being so careful and sweet with her belongings and her Papa.

"' Little Lotte was a clever little girl, being able to crack any riddle that her wise old Grandmother would challenge her with. One day she was wondering in the garden when she heard a little crying sound. She began to investigate and found a little bearded goblin sitting on a toadstool. "Are you alright, Sir?" She asked the goblin (a little taken aback, mind; goblins were not her usual company). "I've lost my home!" wailed the goblin, "I don't remember the way back!" Little Lotte knew just what to do. She took the goblin by the hand and took him to the first hole she saw; as she had read in her storybooks that goblins lived in holes. They sang as they skipped. The goblin dived in to the hole only to be chased out by an angry rabbit. "That's not my home!" wailed the goblin, beginning to cry again. "Don't cry, dear goblin," she replied, drying his tears on her hanky. She took him to the next hole. He dived in to the second hole only to be chased out by a grumpy badger. He began to cry again, "That's not my home!" Little Lotte wiped his tears with her hanky once more and led him to the grand oak in the middle of the garden. The grand oak had a large hole below it, and once more the goblin dived in. A few minutes passed, and Little Lotte began to grow concerned. Then suddenly the goblin sprung out of the hole, beaming. He hugged her shin tightly, as he was only a little fellow. He thanked her, and told her she could visit anytime she wanted to. She waved goodbye and went inside to eat her supper.'"

"I shouldn't know what I'd do if a goblin appeared in my garden!" chuckled Christine. She noticed her father's violin music seeping through the floorboards quietly and paused to enjoy the sweet sound that she loved so much. They continued to read the Swedish stories to each other; some mentioning the Angel of Music, some not. They enjoyed each others' company. And as it grew late and their eyelids felt heavy they curled up next to each other and drifted off in to a peaceful sleep.

That night Christine had the first of the vivid dreams she would have for a long time since. She dreamt she was walking through the streets of Paris. There was a serene light over the cobblestones and she heard a man's voice singing to her. It was saying her name and other words in languages she didn't recognise. Suddenly she glimpsed the dark figure at the end of the road. He was holding something red. She tried to move closer to see what it was he was holding, but her feet would not move from underneath her.

She woke with a jolt of the carriage the next morning in her father's warm arms on the way back to their townhouse in Remigny.


	2. Christine's Flight

**Thank you very much for the very kind review for first chapter, very helpful! And the follow, yay :)**  
** I don't own anything recognisable, unfortunately!**

The doctor had left Christine by herself in the house for half an hour while he attended the patients waiting back at his workplace. He, not being a man who had children himself (and therefore did not know the responsibility one should take with an abandoned seven year old), told her to pack a suitcase of her favourite belongings.

Christine looked around their little house. She began in her room. She could not take her bed; that was too big, and of course there'd be a bed wherever she was to go. She had no idea which clothes she was to take; was she going to a grand house or a house like hers? And she most certainly did not have room for all three of her dolls.

She began to work herself up. She ran her fingers through her hair, tugging it, almost as if this action would give her the remedy to her unmentionable grief. She shut her eyes tightly, praying that when she opened them she would be back on her father's lap, and this would just be an awful, awful dream. And awful it was. When she opened her eyes again she was in her room, in the same situation she was when she closed them. She looked up to her ceiling as if it were the heavens.

"So much for the Angel of Music!" she screamed, "Where _are_ you? Where _are _you when I need you?!"

She took flight; she left all her belongings and sprinted down the stairs. She didn't even bother to put her shoes on, or her coat. Her glance happened to rest on her father's violin sitting in its grand velvet case by the piano. She quickly grabbed it and wrenched open the door. She then darted down the stone steps on to the street, leaving it flapping in the breeze behind her.

She wandered as an aimless urchin for days. She had no idea where she was headed; just that she was following a long, long road. She would sleep in barns and porches and occasionally shivering in the cold outdoors. She would steal fruit from stands in markets to eat, and she would drink stagnant water from the puddles in the road. Because of the intense winter, the fortnight she was homeless passed as a blur. The occasional kindly villager would take her in for the night, but she would always escape by morning, and she would never say a word to anyone; she pretended she was entirely dumb.

Her feet were calloused and sore from her lack of shoes, and as her dress had perished days ago she wore a small pair of breeches that a washerwoman had dropped in one of the towns Christine had passed through on the journey. Her hands and legs were grubby and had a layer of scum and dust from the road on them. She wore a dirty, torn, off-white rag for a shirt and her usually beautiful flowing locks were a mass of matted tangles. Her face was pale, her lips were constantly blue and her eyes ceased to sparkle with energy like they did before she had left her home.

On the final day of her journey, she reached the end of the long road she had taken out of Remigny and she saw a sight that she had not seen for years. An enormous stretch of water was sparkling, glimmering and dancing in the dawn light: the ocean. She felt fresh for the first time since her father's death. It brought back happiness and comfort as she had visited the seaside before with her father. For the first time since, when she thought of her father she did not feel the stabbing pain that she was so used to.

She felt an uplifting surge of hope as she approached the little town. Happy laughter and chatter was in the background as she pottered past some little houses, a bakery and a butcher's. The place was filled with unfamiliar faces and the mesmerising sight of the sea gave her a sense of a new chapter; a new beginning. Her glance happened to rest upon a fruit stand. Her eyes were locked on to the fat, round, crisp, green apples and the ripe, crimson, juice-ridden strawberries. She approached with caution, and the stood surreptitiously next to the picturesque nourishment. Her eyes feasted on her target as she moved in to snatch the fruit when a calloused, rough hand caught her arm.

"I don't think so," growled the voice in a harsh accent, "no thieving urchins welcome 'ere."

"I'm sorry, Madame, I'm just so hungry-"she pleaded desperately, her eyes gazing innocently up at the woman. Her orange hair was straggly and was splayed out in random tufts, her grey eyes were full of venom and her fat nostrils were flared in anger.

"To the police with you, I think. This ain't the place for children of bandits," the woman began to drag Christine in the direction of the officer twenty metres up the hill. Upon the woman insulting her father, she felt a pang of rage hit her.

"My father was an honourable man. He played in prestigious opera houses, actually," she retorted.

The beastly woman dragged Christine up to her height and stared right in to her face.

"Do you think I-"

She was abruptly interrupted by an icy voice over the top of hers;

"Danielle, what are you doing? I'm terribly sorry; my daughter must have only been looking at your apples closely. She has been nagging me all day to look at them,"

Christine turned to look at the owner of the voice, frowning.

A tall middle-aged woman, still with the essence of beauty left over in her face was standing domineeringly over Christine's stout persecutor. She was dressed entirely in black, her long skirt and bodice both covering and complimenting her figure at the same time. Her lips were a dark red and her eyes a piercing grey. Christine was automatically intimidated by this woman, but there was something kind and motherly in her eyes that drew her to the strange woman immediately. Her black hair was scraped back and arranged in to a horizontal plait over the top of her head. The little girl looked at her confusedly, why was she calling her Elodie? And why did she refer to her as her daughter...?

At the woman's authoritative entrance she dropped Christine.

"I'm terribly sorry, Madame," she apologised, "I mistook your daughter for an urchin..."

"She was dressing in these clothes as she was playing in the garden all morning and then we had no time to change before we came to the market,"

Immediately the woman's face changed from suspicious and crinkled to honoured,

"Of course Madame, I'm incredibly sorry to suggest-"

"No harm done, Madame." The woman nodded and gestured to Christine to follow her. In awe of her saviour she did. She followed her round a corner. This road was slightly less busy and people were generally minding their own business. The lady turned abruptly which made Christine jump.

"Tell me your name, child." She demanded softly, but firmly.

"Christine Daae, Madame," she would not pretend not to be mute now; she would not dare.

"I knew it. Follow me." The woman took flight. Christine had to hurry to keep up with her brisk stride. They walked along the high street and in to a block of apartments. They travelled up three flights of stairs, Christine, being exhausted from her journey was out of breath when they reached the top. A large iron key was inserted in to a lock and the door swung open. Christine found herself in a relatively large room with the wallpaper peeling off. There was a table and two chairs and a kitchen with only two worktops, an oven and three saucepans hanging on the wall. The woman turned to look at Christine intently.

"I am Madame Giry," she told Christine slowly, "you are probably wondering why I brought you here?"

Christine nodded, her eyes not being able to leave the lady's face.

"It all started when you weren't born yet. I was in the corps de ballet in a grand Opera House in Paris, and so was your mother. She kept receiving notes from an admirer, from which turned out to be the most esteemed violinist in all of Paris, who had just joined the orchestra. Your mother and father were married very soon afterwards, and were completely in love with one another. They struggled to have a child as the two children they were going to have both died before they were born. This made them very sad, but exactly ten years after their marriage you were born. Unfortunately due to your mother's little body she was unable to take the pressure of a newborn child, and she passed away. I was there when you were born, and she whispered to me to be your godmother, and if anything were to happen to your father I was to take care of you and take you in. On the way back to my husband in Paris my heel was run over by a cart. I was in extreme pain and the recovery took three months, and I was told I was never to dance again but could teach. And I continue to teach at the Opera House to this day. When I heard the awful news about the most prodigious violinist to ever grace the orchestra pit with his playing had passed away, I knew I had to come and find you. A despairing doctor had told me that you had taken flight, and I followed you, begging directions and asking if anyone had seen you. I followed you along the entire road half way from Remigny to here. I knew it was you straight away because you, my dear, are the spitting image of your mother, God rest her soul. And I'm so, so terribly glad that I've finally found you."

There was a slight pause before Christine found herself slamming in to this woman's arms. She cried and cried and cried in her arms for what felt like hours, and Madame Giry just rocked and rocked and rocked her.

Christine's nose sensed a cool breeze and a pricking chill was penetrating her face. Her eyes were shut, but she could hear the repetitive sound of carriage wheels on a cobbled street and the clop of horse hooves in the background.

Her senses waking her, she snapped open her eyes. She felt strange, a sleep with no dreaming or interruptions. She was indeed in a carriage. She looked to her left, outside the window. A low mist hung in the air. It must've been morning as the glittering dew was only just settled outside and the light was the fresh sort of a new day. The black leather walls hung over her and as the shivered and warmed her gloved hands against each other she noticed a woman dressed in black and staring at her sitting in the opposite corner of the carriage. Madame Giry, Christine remembered, the lady who knew my mama and papa.

"Good morning, dear," Madame Giry breathed in her husky voice, "I trust you slept well, seventeen hours it was,"

"I was rather tired," Christine nervously suppressed a smile. She had been rather bold, crying in this woman's arms. Madame Giry did not seem to mind but it was a strange concept, if she thought about it. But she was filled with a feeling that consumed her mind; no, not grief as she'd know if it was after the past two weeks of it. It was relief. This lady was her safe haven, she was to offer Christine an environment of the creative nature she was used to, and she could be close to her mama and papa as Madame Giry had known them both. And she was ecstatic that her mother and father had loved each other so much that they were married almost immediately.

"Where are we headed, Madame?"

"Paris," she replied.


End file.
